Her face wobbles. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize …”
“It’s fine.”
“I just saw you with Nana and assumed that your family was picture-perfect.”
I take in the concern embedded in her eyes. There’s distress in those gorgeous greens because she’s worried about me.
No one worries about me. It’s not something I think a lot about, but I am aware of it. I’m Peck—the guy who will figure it all out. That guy who’ll be okay. The guy who’s just a goofball at the end of the day, so nothing really gets to him, right?
Wrong. Shit does bother me. I just don’t go telling the world about it.
Because the world thinks it already knows. It assumes. Dylan assumes too. But the difference is that she cares when she gets it wrong. It bothers her.
Huh.
“My family is great,” I say. “It’s just that my parents weren’t … that great.”
The vacancy inside a piece of my heart that’s never quite been filled—the one that I become hyper aware of around my birthday or Mother’s Day or the few days a year when I’m basically snowed in. My mother used to love those days. She’d make Vincent and me hot chocolate and snow ice cream, and we would light a big fire in the fireplace. The house always felt like a home on those days.
On other days, it didn’t. It was very much my father’s house, and we were allowed to stay there. A constant reminder was hauled our way that as soon as we were of legal age, they were getting the hell out of there and living their life.
They didn’t even wait that long.
“My dad always resented Vin and me,” I say. “I think he had these big ideas for his life, and then Mom got pregnant, and he felt stuck here. With us.” I shove off the cabinets, a lump in my throat.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault. Not mine either.”
Dylan bites her bottom lip. “No, it’s not. But I can be sorry for you. I know what it’s like to not really have the greatest parents in the world. It sucks. My mom is … a handful. And my dad doesn’t give a shit.”
“My mom cared. I think she knew Dad had a lot of mental issues and got sucked into that.” I shrug. “It’s her choice. Maybe he needs her more than we do. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.”
Her laugh is soft and light. “How are you even a real person?”
“What kind of question is that?”
I pull the steaks from the bag and pat them dry. They probably needed another ten minutes or so, but I need to keep moving.
She leans against the end of the table and watches me get them situated on a tray.
“You just told me that you don’t even know where they are, and you’re like, ‘Oh, that’s okay.’ How are you not bitter about it?” she asks.
Because I’ve had too many years of disappointment. My expectations have been adjusted back to zero.
“Bitter?” I shrug. “A part of me is, I guess. Vincent definitely is. But I figure everyone does what they have to do. I can’t make their choices for them. I can only make mine.”
“You’re way more of an adult than I am. I’m bitter. And angry. And frustrated.”
I look at her. And beautiful.
“At least you’re honest with yourself,” I say.
“But how did you learn to let that go?”
I grin. “The truth?”
“The truth.”
“Little League.”
“What?” she asks with a laugh.
“It’s true. When I started, I was terrible. I mean, awful. Vincent and Machlan were on my team, and both of those bastards were awesome. And then here I come. I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
She giggles.
“I had a coach my second year pull me to the side and tell me something that just stuck with me.”
She waits for me to continue. When I don’t immediately, she motions for me to hurry up. “Come on. Share this golden information.”
“He said that every time I let a strike go by, I was fixating on it. That I didn’t have a shot in the dark at the next pitch because I was worrying about missing that first one. And he was right. I went to the plate knowing I sucked and expecting the worst. As soon as that first pitch came, I was already so amped up and scared shitless that I swung. Missed. And then I stood there and berated myself over it as the next two strikes went by.”
“So you just extrapolated that over your life? Or what?”
“Well, I was twelve.” I laugh. “So not immediately. But eventually, I did. And it worked. Helped me not to hold on to a lot of shit.”
“See? I didn’t play softball. I was a cheerleader.”
I nod in appreciation. “I bet you gleaned a few valuable lessons from that too.”
“Oh, totally,” she says, nodding empathically. “Like how I don’t look great in white and olive green. And not to trust the girl who likes your boyfriend to be your back spotter.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“The short version: concussions.”
“Ouch,” I say, flinching.
“Yeah.”
I pick up the tray and head for the door onto the patio. “Be right back.”
The charcoal is nice and hot. I empty the chimney full of coals and add a few new briquettes. Once the grill is ready, I place the steaks on the grill.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Dylan’s watching me. I know it. And instead of it making me nervous … I like the feeling of it. I like the idea of it. Of her beside me in the kitchen as we prepare dinner while listening to music and talking about our lives. When have I ever had this?
Maybe I’d cook more if this was the case.
I grin and shut the lid.
She has a bowl out and is making the salad when I step back into the house.
“I thought I’d go ahead and get this ready,” she says. “How many tomatoes do you want me to put in it?”
“However many you’d like,” I say from the sink. I rinse my hands and then grab a towel. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
“Well, do you like a lot of them or not so many?”
“I don’t really even like tomatoes,” I admit.
She sets the knife down. “Then why did you buy them?”
“I don’t know. Don’t they go in a salad?”
She cocks her head to the side. Lifting a cucumber, she holds it in the air. “What about these?”
I shrug.
“Do you like them?” she asks.
I shrug again.
“I don’t understand,” she says.
“The lady at the store said that’s what goes in a salad. I don’t know that stuff. So if she’s wrong, blame it on her. Not on me.” I laugh. “I also got sunflower seeds, but I do like those. Never had them in a salad, but I like them for sure.”
She laughs, her voice blending with mine. “If you basically don’t like anything that goes in a salad, then why are we having it?”
“Don’t you like salad?”
Her shoulders fall as a smile graces her lips. “Yes. I do. And I like tomatoes and cucumbers.”
“Good,” I say, trying not to show her how proud I am of myself.
She turns away, her hair covering the side of her face. A song plays from her phone, the lyrics about candles dripping on bodies striking a chord deep inside mine.
She flips her head so that her hair falls on her far shoulder, exposing the side of her face to me. She chops the vegetables, her hips moving with the beat of the song. The bass is deep, the beat slow and sensual. Her lashes fall closed as she loses herself in the words.
I walk toward her, unable to look away.
Holding her breath as I get closer, she stills.
I stand behind her and peer over her shoulder.
Kissing her would be so easy. Touching her would take all of a half of a second. But if I do either, I’m not going to stop.
And I have dinner to make.
“Looking good,” I say.
&n
bsp; She blows out a breath.
I’m lying. She looks incredible. She smells fucking awesome. She has shown me more empathy in a few days than many of my friends had throughout my life. She is sexy as hell. But she will get to eat her dinner because I’m starting to realize that she deserves someone looking after her.
I laugh at her frustration—because, fuck, I get it—winking as I head to the refrigerator.
Twenty
Dylan
The unexpected charm of this man is on full display as he maneuvers around the kitchen with ease. “For someone who doesn’t ever cook, you sure know your way around the kitchen.”
“It’s never been fun to cook for one.”
“But it is for two?”
He lifts from checking on the potatoes, gazing through the oven window as if he’s admiring newborns in the nursery. When his blue eyes land back on me, my hands press a little harder onto the counter to steady myself.
That level of sexy should be outlawed.
The corners of his lips shoot up. “It is for you.”
The kitchen suddenly feels like a hot August day with him standing so close. I look away, directing my attention back to the salad. The blade of the knife slices through the tomato, cracking down on the cutting board.
“Careful,” he says, coming around me. “I just sharpened the knives.”
He sets a cutting board next to mine and starts chopping the onions. I think it’s the first true glimpse of how comfortable we’ve become in our living situation. I don’t know if I should be worried or appreciate it by living in the moment. The latter is feeling like a favorite T-shirt right about now, so I go with what feels good.
Peck Ward feels good. Every brush of his arm against mine, the way his laughter tickles my ear, and the heat that exudes between us is heightened. I finish dicing the tomato and take a step back, leaning against the opposite counter to get a better look at him. From that ass to those biceps and broad shoulders, he knows how to get attention without even trying.
“What are you doing, Dylan?”
My eyes shoot up to find his on me. “Just … thinking.”
“What are you thinking about?”
Your body.
“I … um …” I laugh. “Thinking about how that kiwifruit makes things soft.”
“Really?” He pretends to consider that. “I don’t know that I’d go with soft.”
“That’s true. Nobody likes soft meat.”
His smirk digs deeper as he sets the knife down. “How do you like your meat, Dylan?”
I have no idea if we’re still talking about actual meat or not, but I’m willing to play this game. If for no other reason than to see his face when he wears the look like he wants to eat me.
I gulp. “Hearty.”
He chuckles.
“Or aged to perfection,” I offer.
“Interesting choice of words.”
“What word do you prefer?” I ask. “To describe meat, of course.”
He sticks his tongue in the side of his cheek. He’s such an insane mix of playful and sexy that I don’t know which to focus on. My cheeks ache from smiling, but my thighs burn from desire.
“I’d say … hand-rubbed,” he says.
“Well done.”
“What? My comeback or that’s how you like your meat too?”
We laugh together, the sound filling the room.
He plants both palms on the counter behind him and gives it a shove. The momentum sends him across the kitchen toward me.
I can’t look away as he gets closer. My heart thumps in my chest, sending a flow of blood over my ears that makes me dizzy.
He stops in front of me and peers down. The playfulness is still there, but it’s overshadowed by the heat in his eyes.
I want him even though it goes against everything I know is right for me. He’s in love with someone else, and I’m likely just a rebound of sorts who’s being used as a tool to the nth degree. And when it doesn’t work, he can eject me out of here like yesterday’s trash.
But right now, looking up into those gorgeous eyes of his, I just. Don’t. Care. I’ll deal with it later.
“You standing this close to me isn’t fair,” I tell him.
“Why?”
His voice is a dead giveaway to the fact that he wants to see if there’s any fire under all this smoke billowing between us.
“Because I want to touch you, and you know that.”
It takes a few seconds for that to register. When it does, I know.
He adjusts his weight, widening his stance to encapsulate both of my feet. He surrounds me with his wide frame as a grin touches his lips.
“Since when do you not do what you want?” he teases.
“I can touch?” I wink, making that smirk of his grow.
“You most definitely can touch.”
Letting my hands land on his abs, I rub around and then dip under his shirt. It wasn’t the kitchen that’s been bringing the heat. His warm skins heats mine, and my breathing quickens.
“Why are you so irresistible?” I breathe the words out because I’m a hot mess of a turned-on and insatiable.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve felt like this.
His arms wrap around me. He holds me tight against him, his chest rising and falling as wildly as mine.
His body is hard and steady, and I could stay all day with my cheek pressed against his chest. He leans down, his lips fluttering against my ear.
“I could ask you the same the question,” he says. “But why bother with small talk when I can show you.”
The moment his lips land on my neck, I close my eyes and tilt my head to the side, never wanting a man more than I do him. I was flirting—both with him and the line between us—but now I want him. I need him.
I glance at the oven timer. “We have time. Just saying.”
A chuckle vibrates from his chest. “How much?”
My breathing goes in and out at a ragged pace. I lean back to see his face. “Twenty-five minutes.”
“I only need ten.”
I start to laugh as his face wrinkles in disgust.
“Calling it like it is,” he says. “You know what I mean. I’m not going to last long with you.”
I slide my hands in his hair. My body angles toward his. “As long as it’s a good ten minutes.” I can’t stop myself from laughing.
He rolls his eyes, but then his arms tighten around me, and he lifts me on top of the counter. “Damn straight, it will be.”
“Time’s a ticking, Wesley.”
He nuzzles his face in the crook of my neck. “I love a challenge, but I’m not sure if I want to win this one or not.”
I pull away and take his face in my hands. It’s smooth, freshly shaven, as I hold his jaw in my palms. If I continue, this will be a go. There will be no way out. But as I watch him lick his lips, his eyes as constant and unshakable as I know him to be, I realize a truth: I’m already all in.
“How about we race to the finish together instead?” I breathe.
He leans forward and presses his lips softly against mine. His body moves closer until he’s up against me. I hook my ankles around the small of his back as he deepens the kiss.
I moan into his mouth; the contact glorious but not quite fulfilling. I need more.
His tongue swipes past my lips. He wraps his arms around me again and draws me even closer.
I’m surrounded by Peck Ward.
He tastes of warmth and wishes, of heat and happiness. There’s no rush, no urgency to his sweet kisses. It’s as if he has all the time in the world to commit this to memory.
The song changes. Peck slowly breaks the kiss.
I sag as his lips separate from mine. Air is pulled into my lungs, and I search his face, desperate for more.
“That wasn’t ten minutes,” I tell him.
“Change of plans.”
My dress is lifted, and on a gasp, my panties are removed. Sinking to his knees, he presses his silk
y lips against my inner thighs. I lean back on the counter, propping myself up on my elbows, and watch him watch me enjoy his touch.
“Ah,” I eke out as his hands run up and down my legs.
I’ve missed this feeling of being so desired, so wanted, that my partner just can’t wait to have me. I don’t even think I had this with Charlie. Not even once.
He bunches my dress at my waist and licks up and down the inside of my legs. Just when I’m about to lose my mind in the feel of his tongue stroking closer and closer to the apex of my thighs, he stands.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He calmly opens a drawer next to me. “I need to flip the steaks so they don’t burn.”
“I’m burning over here. With desire.” I half-laugh because it’s only half-funny. “You’re just going to leave me here?”
“Don’t worry,” he says, clapping the tongs together. “I plan to get back here with plenty of time to take the checkered flag.”
“I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore, but that better mean what I think it does.”
He opens the back door. “It does. Relax.” The door closes, and I sigh in frustration. There’s no way to actually relax like this—not with my body staging a riot for some kind of relief.
The door opens again, and he tosses the tongs on the counter. He stands between my legs, and I sit up.
“Now, where were we?” he asks.
“If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.”
“That’d be the first time you don’t try to tell me what to do.”
I smack at him, but he captures my hand. I’m quickly scooped into his arms and kissed as he carries me to my bedroom.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“If it makes you remember where we were, then it’s perfect.”
He grins.
I turn around. Lifting my hair above my neck, I ask, “Do you mind unzipping me?”
He kisses the nape of my neck and plants a few random pecks down the side. My skin tingles with anticipation as the zipper slides down my spine. The right side is taken down my shoulder and then the left before the dress puddles at my feet. I step out of the dress, turning around to face him.
Gibson Boys Box Set Page 113
